


Fragmentation

by Mellorine



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Rape, Rape Culture, Rape Recovery, Sexual Abuse, Spark Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:05:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellorine/pseuds/Mellorine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the bar, dim lighting, soft music, laughing over something the other one said. He should be here with his intended, he should be at home, he should be –<br/>So many things.<br/>But he’s not.<br/>And this is how it happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Drown in Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to this prompt on the TF anon kinkmeme: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=15051413#t15051413
> 
> TFP-based AU (mostly for the character designs, tbh)
> 
> This is the most ambitious thing I've ever actually been brave enough to post, so, uh, bear with me please.

 It begins with

**ONE**

At the bar, dim lighting, soft music, laughing over something the other one said. He should be here with his intended, he should be at home, he should be –

So many things.

But he’s not.

And this is how it happens.

He’s laughing too loud, he can tell he’s laughing too loud, too much, too often. That’s not like him, his intended is always saying –

_“You need to let loose, live a little! But I suppose it is true what they say,” his intended leans up to purr in his audial. “It always is the quiet ones.”_

Somehow they aren’t at the table anymore. When did they move?

It doesn’t matter, relax, the other one tells him.

He can do that. He can –

Where are they? When did they move?

Don’t worry. Don’t worry. Hush.

He’s on the floor. Did he fall? Did he lie down? There’s something missing in his memory, pieces missing, memory stuttering over empty gaps.

A shadow over him.

He reaches up. Caresses the face. Is it his intended? Always so romantic.

Love, he whispers. Beloved.

Choked out laughter. Yes, I’ll make you feel loved.

He smiles and

This isn’t –

This isn’t how –

This isn’t right no no no no no no.

He looks down. His chestplates are open –

WRONG. PAIN. STOP. NO.

OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT-T-T-T

Not for you not for you not for you why why why are you doing this please –

_“More,” his intended moans, then stills when he hears chestplates unlatch. “No,” his intended reaches a hand up to press them closed. “We wait. Please.” He nods. Anything for his beloved._

He barely notices as his interface panel is moved aside but sudden hurt brings him back and he stares up at the other who stares down at him and moves and it’s wrong it’s wrong this isn’t how anything should be.

What did I do wrong? he cries. Please, tell me.

Everything. Nothing.

Sparklight reflects off the other’s optics. So beautiful.

Something builds in him and he’s arching off the floor, pressing against the other and the other slams his arms down. Their fingers lace together, the other’s strong digits against his own spindly ones.

He can hear vents laboring in the dark. So loud, he can’t hear himself think can’t hear anything don’t want to hear anything there’s nothing to hear.

Sparklight flares wildly between them and he can feel the other in him and himself in the other. They’re so close. So close he can’t even tell the difference between them anymore. So close and still getting closer.

The other growls in his audial and –

It’s over.

Lips press against his and he reflexively kisses back.

See you around.

He nods weakly.

Where is he? He should be getting home. His beloved will be worried sick. What time is it? Something’s wrong with his chronometer. No matter. Everything is fine.

He leans against a wall and looks down at himself. What happened? Did he get in a fight? Why can’t he remember?

Is this his energon? His lubricant? His transfluid?

What happened?

Why can’t he remember?

Where’s –

Where’s his –

His beloved –

Where –

Why –

What did he do? What did he do what did he do what did he do.

I’m sorry.

And then, nothing.

 

* * *

 

The rest is a blur.

An enforcer pushes him into the precinct building. Got a public indecency. Book ‘im.

A shuttle leers at him from across the cell. I’d ask what you’re in here for, but it’s a little obvious, ain’t it.

An enforcer eyes him from behind a monitor. Soundwave, is it? I’ve notified your next-of-kin.

A judge frowns down at him. This court finds you guilty of infidelity.

A crowd stares at him, full of disgust.  

How could you do this to me? A sudden voice out of the crowd. His intended, devastation gouged into his face.

No. He didn’t. He didn’t mean to. I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t mean to I didn’t want it to happen I didn’t want it please believe me I love you you’re everything to me I love you so so much –

I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Pushed towards a raised platform. An enforcer says something, but he can’t understand it. It doesn’t matter anyway.

A mask is pressed down on his face. Sudden searing pain as it’s welded on. His vision fritzes madly as the visor tries to patch into his optics and –

He stumbles to his knees. Is jerked upright again. Error readings flash as the mask tries desperately to parse new information.

There’s something wrong with his arm.

He can see the lacerated plating between the static of his vision.

He tries to tuck his arm close to his body. No more. Please stop. I’m sorry.

There is no emotion in the enforcer’s optics as he swings the whip down.

It catches on the edge of his chestplate on the return.

Down.

Across his back.

Down.

Along the edge of his mask’s weld line.

Down.

His vocalizer is only spitting static now.

Down.

Down.

And then no more.

Thank you thank you he wants to say, but he can’t force the words out.

He slips in energon. His energon? When –

On his knees he looks out at the crowd. He recognizes no one.

He wishes this was the end.

 

* * *

 

But it’s not.

It continues with

**TWO**

Lying in an alleyway. When did he get here? He can see the raised platform in the distance. Empty. Peaceful.

Someone blocks the light.

What do we have here? It’s a cruel voice, intentionally harsh. He imagines the words are said in sympathy.

He imagines that the weight that settles down upon him is a loving embrace.

He imagines that the insults grated into his audial are sweet nothings.

He imagines that the rough handling is slow and gentle.

He imagines that, once it is over, he is wrapped in caring arms.

He imagines that he is more than nothing.

It’s a good dream.

**THR-R-R-REE**

Time has passed. He’s hungry but he can’t bring himself to move. His chronometer still spits back nonsense at him. His visor still flickers, nauseatingly. His vocalizer still hisses nothing but white noise.

Movement in his alley. When did it become his alley?

Trade? His visitor holds out a cube of energon.

He wants to laugh. He remembers what happened last time he accepted that kind of gift.

He takes it.

He hates himself.

He’s so hungry.

Only when it taps against his mask does he remember that he can’t drink it, at least not in the traditional sense. His visitor is almost gentle as he shows him how to pour it into his auxiliary intake.

They move together, desperate in their need.

When he wakes up in the morning his visitor is gone.

He’s sad about this, and hates himself for that too.

**FOUR**

This one is brutal, and he refuses to remember it.

**FI-I-I-00110101**

He’s no longer in his alley. He doesn’t remember why. He feels its loss and wonders when he started thinking of it as home.

It doesn’t matter.

A stray turbohound pads up and noses at him. He growls static at it and it shies away, then flees at the sound of footsteps.

Laughter. He curls up to make himself small.

The footsteps split apart and he realizes he’s surrounded.

He unfolds and opens for them.

Make it quick.

**66666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666666**

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

**SEVEN**

He’ll kill them he’ll kill them all tear out their optics rip them apart nothing but hate for them for all of them they left him here left him here to rust and die but he’ll show them he’ll show his intended his friends everyone who did this to him he’ll return to them tenfold what they gave him and they’ll come to love him before he’s through.

He’ll start with the one right here, right now.

Just reach up towards the light and

TEAR IT OUT

the light goes out.

He buries himself among the dead.

 

* * *

 

**eight**

He’s covered in filth and he doesn’t care.

Why should he care?

All the things that used to matter to him are nothing now, crushed in the cold darkness of his spark.

He took them and crushed them and they don’t exist anymore just leave me alone.

He coughs static at the figure in front of him.

Try. Just try.

The figure reaches down and he lashes out, startles him, pins him to the ground.

There’s emotion in the figure’s optics.

Surprise.

Sorrow.

No. He doesn’t want that, don’t give him that, take it back take it back.

He strikes at the figures optics

CLAW THEM OUT

but the figure catches his hand in his own.

No no no he can’t he can’t no more not again.

It’s okay. You’re okay. The figure reaches up behind him and does something to his helm.

His vision flickers and he feels himself slipping away.

Not again. Why? Why is this who he has become?

He can see his beloved, rising out of the darkness of his memory.

_“I’ll always be with you.”_

He smiles at that face, so perfect, so good, but it shifts, turns into everyone he has bent for.

_“Always.”_

I love you.


	2. Stop, Go, Stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real drama of this situation is whether or not I'll be able to keep up my schedule of one chapter per week.

He wakes up to noise.

Voices.

A door slams.

The thump of footsteps.

He onlines his visor.

A tiny room. Cell-like. He’s lying on an unyielding berth and it’s the most comfortable thing he’s ever felt.

The footsteps pause outside the door and he tenses.

Get ready to strike. He won’t let it happen anymore.

He can’t.

The footsteps move on and he curls up on the berth.

He’s not shaking.

Everything is fine.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up again. He doesn’t remember falling offline.

His visor pings him with useless information: Energy levels: 12%.

He can smell charred rubber and ozone. Stale processed energon.

He knows that smell, intimately, and he needs to move run get out this is wrong it smells like a charnel house and a chop-shop and the –

The alleys.

The platform.

The room.

RUN GET OUT MOVE

He’s off the berth and through the door and into the next room and slamming up against the next door and scrabbling at the latch open open open why won’t it open and –

Movement.

He freezes and looks over.

Death is sitting there.

Sitting on a rusted crate with a wary look in its eyes, scrubbing at its seams with a tangle of steel wool.

“There’s energon on the counter,” Death rasps. “Or you may leave. The door is unlocked.”

His visor pings again: Energy levels: 12%.

No. Leave. The door is unlocked. Leave.

Energy levels: 11%.

He can take the cube, and then leave.

He opens the door. It’s unlocked. Death wasn’t lying.

Without taking his optics off Death, he stalks over to the counter, snatches the cube, and escapes out into the hallway.

He fetches up against the wall and fumbles at the cube, no idiot don’t drink it now keep moving, but – energy levels: 11% – he can drink this right now and if he drinks it right now no one can take it away from him and he’ll have strength to defend, and he jerks back the film cover and it splashes against the rim, slow down slow down don’t waste it, and he pours it with shaking hands into his auxiliary intake.

Fueled. Safe. Good. Okay. Okay. Okay.

He hears movement and his optics snap up to see Death lingering at the threshold.

“I tried to refuel you while you were offline but,” it gestures vaguely. “I wasn’t sure.”

He slowly rises from where he’s collapsed against the wall. When did he fall down? No, that’s not important right now, keep it together. Focus.

Energy levels: 30%.

That’s good. That can keep him running for a while. If he finds a quiet nook somewhere and keeps careful watch, 30% can keep him running for days.

That’s a good plan. That’s a good plan, he just needs to follow through on the plan.

“I have more, if you need it.” Death gestures at the empty cube.

 More. More could raise his levels high enough that he wouldn’t have to worry about keeping his exertion to a minimum.

“Wait a moment,” Death disappears back into the room.

This is a terrible idea. He needs to keep moving. Make his way back to the alley. Or find a different alley. A different alley would be better because then Death wouldn’t be able to find him again –

Stop thinking. Just go.

His vocalizer clicks and he lurches down the hallway. 30% is fine. He doesn’t need any more than that. He knows what charity always wants in return.

Sound behind him. Keep walking.

“I’ll just leave it right here,” a voice calls out to him. Keep walking.

The soft whump of a door closing.

Turn around, get the cube, leave.

Three easy steps. He can do it.

He turns around.

Walks back.

Picks up the cube.

Turns to leave just as two mechs come thumping up the stairs.

That’s fine. Keep calm. Go.

He keeps as close to the wall as he can as he walks toward the exit. Ten more steps, then safety.

He’s eight steps away when one of the mechs whistles at him.

“What’s a nice mech like you doin’ all banged up like that?”

Six steps. Just get past them.

“Come back with us, we’ll clean you up real good.”

Four steps. He’s past them.

“Hey, don’t you fraggin’ keep walking, I’m talkin’ to you!”

Two steps. Almost there.

One step. Almost –

He’s grabbed by the shoulder and slammed against the wall. The two mechs loom over him.

“Well would ya look at that,” the taller of the two grins at his partner. “Prettymech’s got a mask. You been bad, prettymech?”

He leans away from the hand that traces along his visor. Two mechs. He’s never needed to take on two before. One is fine, with one he can wait until they’re caught up in the moment, but with two they’ll want to take turns and no no no no no no no not now he can’t he won’t, don’t just stand there, do something, do something you pathetic waste of scrap, or do you want to just stand there and take it, is that what you want, fragging shareware just gonna take it –

He lashes out but the second mech grabs his wrist and pins it to the wall.

“The frag was that? You want me to call the cops? That what you want, prettymech?” The mech sneers. “They’ll take one look at you and off you’ll go, back to the slammer. So just shut the frag up and enjoy it.”

A hand paws between his thighs and he slams his helm against the offender and twists away, but his balance is off and the two mechs shove him, visor first, against the wall.

 “Slaggin’ buymech, you got a glitch or something? Two mechs wanna give you a good time, you fraggin’ say yes!”

A knee wedges his legs apart, and he gasps static. One of the mechs sighs into his audial, “Don’t worry sweetspark, you’ll love –“

With a screech of shearing metal, the weight is suddenly off his back. He hears shout of pained surprise, abruptly cut off with a crash. A second crash, and a tank-churning _snap_.

Then calm, only ragged ventilations and the faint hum of active systems breaking the silence.

He keeps his optics on the wall.

“Are you all right?”

Optics on the wall.

“I believe this is yours.”

He looks over. It’s the cube of energon, miraculously unspilled.

He looks up into the red optics of Death. It seems almost ridiculous to think of this mech who saved him as Death but the scent of spilled energon and scorched wiring still cloaks him like a mantle, and, well. Death can be a certain kind of salvation.

He takes the cube with trembling hands. Part of him recoils at the thought of showing such obvious weakness, but in front of someone who just saved him from being dry ‘faced in a hallway the thought of feigning dignity seems laughably absurd.

_Thank you_ , he tries to say, but the soft hiss of static is the only noise from his vocalizer.

The mech’s face twists into something like a smile. “You’re welcome.”

They stare at each other for a moment, before the mech ex-vents heavily and rubs a hand over his face. “I should probably go throw those two outside,” he gestures at the heap of metal lying at the bottom of the staircase. “If you want, you,” he pauses, awkwardly, “you’re welcome to come clean up back at my place. Or at least refuel.”

It’s a terrible idea.

“I don’t want anything from you.” It looks as if the words physically pain him to say. “You don’t have to. Whatever you want.”

The mech makes his way down the stairs to where the other two are starting to groggily moan.

It’s a terrible idea, _but_ , his processor whispers in the back of his mind, would it be so bad? He’d have protection, and fuel, and at the very least a floor with a roof over it, and if the mech wants payment for services rendered, it’s worth it, isn’t it?

Just make your choice. If it’s the wrong choice, the worst possible choice, then at least you’ll never have to worry about making wrong choices ever again.

A terrible idea.

“My designation is Megatron, by the way,” the mech calls up from where he has both mechs slung over his massive shoulders.

_Soundwave_ , he doesn’t reply.

He turns and walks back to the apartment.


	3. Runtime Error

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever I copy/paste my chapters into AO3 it deletes all my one-word paragraphs. Is this a normal problem?????

The apartment is a wreck.

It’s tiny, and dim, and dirty. The same reek of death that surrounds the mech – _Megatron –_ permeates the walls, and the only thing keeping it from being a complete and utter mess is the fact that the only possession he seems to own is a small pile of empty energon cubes.

It’s so much nicer than anything Soundwave has seen in weeks.

It has a roof. It has a berth. Does it matter what this stranger – _Megatron_ , his processor insists – intends? He’s already done so much more for so much less.

His hands are shaking as he looks at the energon cube he’s holding.

No. They’re not shaking. They. Are. Not.

Why would they be? No, this is good.

Everything’s looking up.

In-vent.

Ex-vent.

His vents stutter as the door opens behind him and watched out of the corner of his optic as Megatron lumbers in and settles back on his crate.

He should move. Do something. Standing in the middle of the room, Primus, he must look glitched.

Megatron clears his vocalizer. “Apologies for the lack of seating. I don’t usually have company.”

That’s fine. Why would he need to sit down? Does this mech – _Megatron Megatron Megatron –_ want him to sit down? He should sit down. Wouldn’t want to upset his host. Generous, kind, charitable host.

He walks over to the wall and slumps down. Back against the wall. Side against the pile of energon cubes. A good, defensible position.

Megatron shifts awkwardly. “And the mess. Sorry about the mess.”

The mess. Right. As if he would have any room to judge after living in literal garbage.

He’s not sure whether it’s the idea that he could possibly think anything is a mess after where he’s been living, or that this enormous thug apparently has pretentions of civility, but he snorts static before he can think to stop himself.

He freezes, no no no he’s ruined it he’s fucked it all up, stupid _stupid_ how stupid can you be, laughing at someone inside their own damn house? He can count down the seconds until the other mech snaps and tears into him, three

two

one

_crack_

He looks up from where he’s curled into a ball. This isn’t –.  This isn’t right. He should be in pain, he should be trying to apologize, he should be _something_.

There’s energon running down his hand, but his hand isn’t hurt, is it? He’d feel it if his hand was damaged, he’s not that numb ( _wouldn’t that be nice_ ) so why –

The cube.

That’s all it is, just the cube of energon.

He watches as it slowly drips out of the crack in the side and down his hand to pool on the floor.

Wasteful.

Don’t waste energon. The rule – not the first rule, not even close to the first rule, but an important rule nonetheless – was don’t waste energon. Waste not, want not. And life is nothing but _want_.

His fingers skip over the pool. He can’t lap it up with his glossa, thank Primus for that and frag Primus for that, so he tries for the next best thing: letting the liquid tension of the energon cling to his fingers so he can scrape it off into his intake pipe.

It’s mindless, engrossing work and he forgets his audience until a shadow falls over him.

He startles, straight into the pile of empty cubes, and there’s the crunch of glass as they break under him.

Betrayed by his own defensive position, and the thought is so, _so_ ridiculously stupid that he’s laughing before he can stop himself, static choking its way out of his vocalizer.

Megatron bends down and slowly sweeps the shards into a rough pile, and he should be helping but he just _can’t_ the situation is just too much, _frag_ , how long has it even been since he laughed this much? Was it –

No. Don’t remember that. It was never.

His laughter trails off in awkward spurts.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s my fault, I’ve been meaning to clean these up for a while.” Megatron glances up, his expression unreadable.

If only he’d say what he fragging well _wants_ , this entire situation would be easier.

The alleys were easier. Then, if he fell into a pile of glass he’d only have himself to worry about. Not this stranger’s baffling, unnecessary concern. His strange need to preface everything he does with apologies.

He doesn’t need charity, not when charity won’t tell him what he owes.

Maybe he should just leave. Run out of the room as fast as he can, don’t look back, forget any of this ever happened.

Go back to where everything makes sense.

Megatron looks away, optics shifting awkwardly. “You probably could still use more recharge. Feel free to use my berth.”

Yeah. Sure.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s lying on the berth trying to convince himself that he can recharge when Megatron walks in.

Finally.

It’s a weight off his chest, the real, physical weight of no longer having to wonder when it would finally, _finally_ happen. He’d laugh if he didn’t want to cry, and for once he’s thankful that he can do neither.

So instead he slides his interface panel open, and turns off his optics.

He hears the door close.

Silence.

He onlines his optics.

The room is empty.

Why –

Did he leave?

His optics dart around the room. Make sure the room’s empty. He’s made that mistake before, but –

It’s empty.

Why did he leave? What does he want, what –

What does he fucking want, why can’t he be clear and just do what everyone else does and frag him straight into the berth and then he’d know where they stand and he wouldn’t have to choke on the leash of his _stupid fragging charity_ , what’s wrong with this mech that he doesn’t desire him, what’s wrong with him that he isn’t desirable, how _dare_ he walk in here and just look at him and leave, he thinks he’s too good? He thinks he’s too good for a dirty, filthy, broken _guttermech_ I’ll show you who’s broken when I tear out your fucking spark and _shove it down your throat –_

There’s a ringing in his audials and _he should stop he knows he should stop_ as he opens the door _stop you can turn back right now_ and launches himself at Megatron’s retreating back _kill you kill you kill you no no no_ and digs his spindly fingers into transformation seams and wrenches _this is all your fault_ and he only realizes it’s the sound of his own shrieking vocalizer when Megatron twists around and wedges his foot between then and kicks him across the room.

He slams into the wall and curls up.

He’s ruined it.

_Good._

That’s the way it should be.

That’s the way he is.

Everything matches.

Everything’s perfect.

Just let it lie.


	4. Hold Me Close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry for the delay in this one. I got distracted by about ten thousand things. (If you feel like participating in my distraction, I've been taking tiny drabble requests over on tumblr.)

A rhythmic whirring fills the room as Megatron’s weapons systems repeatedly cycle on and off. It finally dies down to a low hum, and Soundwave eyes him out of the corner of his optic from where he lies curled up, mask pressed against the floor.

“That’s the second time you’ve managed to get the drop on me,” Megatron finally says. “I suppose I should commend you.

“Are you all right?” He slowly rises and walks over to peer down at Soundwave. “I threw you rather hard.” He reaches down and Soundwave’s instincts blare –

FIGHT

no no no

RUN

but there’s nowhere to run, his back is literally against the wall and his data tentacles whip out despite his processor screeching at him _no don’t use delicate protect protect_ but what use are useless things when he’s torn and broken on the ground, what use are useless things when he’s never going to have a use for them ever again, so they scythe through the air and lash Megatron across the face.

There’s a moment, one brief moment, when both of them stare at each other, and he has the weak, pitiful hope that maybe Megatron will, yet again ( _and again and again and again_ ), forgive him, but he can _feel_ the exact moment when the other’s defense systems come raging online and the battlelust slips over Megatron’s optics and he lashes out and rakes his claws across Soundwave’s already damaged mid-plating.

Energon spurts but that’s fine he’s fine _it doesn’t hurt at all_ and as huge and crackling with power as Megatron is, he’s _slow_ , so slow that Soundwave can duck his next punch and wrap his tentacles around his arms to slam him bodily against the wall. Megatron rebounds off the wall and his fans are howling and a snarl rips from this throat and Soundwave knows _this_ is the monster he knew was there ever since they met in the

~~ALLEY~~

here is the Death that came for him, the stench of slaughter and viscera the warning it displays around itself, confident in its knowledge that there is no escape, not from Death, not from what you deserve, not from the gift promised to you from the day you woke up, but he’s not ready, he doesn’t want the gift

LIAR

no he _doesn’t_ ( _not quite yet_ ) not when he can still strike while Megatron is off-balance and reeling, and his tentacles snake around to deflect Megatron’s reach while his own slender hands dart in to rip at his neck cowling.

Megatron roars as his plating bends unnaturally and heaves his helm forward to slam against Soundwave. Static fritzes Soundwave’s vision and he stumbles back, tentacles thrashing to fend off the attack he knows is _there_ – he ducks under Megatron’s next swing and twists around on one heel to slam into Megatron from behind, but he reels back, Megatron’s too solid, too massive, and he knows his mistake as Megatron simply grunts with the impact then wheels around and slams him to the floor. Soundwave scrabbles for purchase _no no no_ _get off_ and his tentacles wrap around Megatron’s arms, but Megatron wrenches free and slams his fist down on one of them, crushing it with a brittle snap. Soundwave howls static as it flops broken to the ground and his other tentacle snaps around smacks Megatron across the face, and he scrambles out from underneath, his broken tentacle dragging limply after him.

His fans are whirring up and down, up and down, but Megatron’s are a steady roar as he lurches up and after him. Soundwave has to get out, he has to get out _now_ , he’s going to die here and no one will ever know ( _who would want to?_ ) and he should have known better. But he was weak. Weak and stupid and so, so careless. He doesn’t want this to be the end, he’s survived _so much_ , this _can’t_ be it, so he brings his hands and his one working tentacle up, but Megatron brushes them aside like so much scrap and wraps one huge fist around Soundwave’s helm and slams him against the wall again and again and again.

Something cracks in the back of Soundwave’s helm and his vision goes dead in one corner. _Get out._ He kicks up, trying to pry Megatron off but he can’t get leverage and his foot slides back down. _Get out_. Megatron’s ventilations gust hot across him and his hand rips down toward the mid-plating covering Soundwave’s spark

“ _My spark is yours and yours is mine.”_

_Chestplates open, golden light reflects off the ceiling of the room –_

NO NO NO NO NO

and Soundwave slams his helm against Megatron’s, rips free from his grip and runs for the door.

He can hear the other mech turning to follow him, but he slams the door open and stumbles down the hall as quickly as he can, energon dripping a trail after him.

He doesn’t look back.

***

Acid rain splashes down, leaving tiny craters in the ground. It hisses against his back as Soundwave stumbles down the street, his damaged data tentacle cradled in his arms.

He got out. He escaped. He’s safe.

The streets are mostly clear, most mechs having long since fled for the safety of a dry roof, but there’s the odd mech who gives him strange looks as they walk past.

He flinches closer into himself and hurries along.

The acid rain stings his back plating and burns when it hits open cuts. He should get out of the rain, but he can’t stop walking.

One more step.

And one more step.

And one more.

At least he wasn’t wrong. Can you imagine, if he’d been wrong? If that mech – _what was his name again? –_ had taken him in, nothing but kindness in his spark, and tried to fix him?

That would have been –

Awful.

His useless mouth curves under his mask.

No, this is much better.

Two mechs are walking together further up the street. Talking. Laughing. The smaller of the two ducks under his partner’s shuttle wing, taking shelter from the rain.

It makes Soundwave’s plating itch.

They exchange a kiss, and the shuttle mech continues on, while the smaller one turns down a side alley.

Soundwave follows.

The mech is clearly out of place, trying to take a shortcut to escape the weather. He moves quickly, stumbling over the scrap scattered about, and even with his own injuries it’s far too easy for Soundwave to pad softly up behind him and slam him against the wall with his undamaged tentacle.

The mech yelps, babbling something, but Soundwave wraps a tentacle around the mech’s throat and squeezes, and his voice cracks into static.

_Shut up_.

Servos grasp at his tentacle, tying to pry it off. He ignores them; they can’t do him any harm. Not when want he wants is right –

Here.

The mech’s static rises to a binary shriek and snaps off as Soundwave cracks through his spark casing.

_So beautiful._

The frame grays under his hands.

All his. All for him. He crumbles against the corpse in his arms and clutches it tight.

_Protect me from the rain?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! I'm worried people might read this chapter and be like wtf where is this going. Please trust me, I got a plan, and I really hope you'll enjoy it. Megatron will be back (obviously, or the tags wouldn't make much sense) so stick tight! (Or not, I mean, don't feel guilty if you want to drop it.)
> 
> And another thing! All you beautiful, lovely, amazing people who leave comments! I'm sorry I don't always respond, I'm literally just so overwhelmed each time it happens, half my replies would just be !!!!!!! :D <3 <3 <3 !!!!!!! and variations thereof. But know that I love and appreciate every one of you! You're all so sweet, I don't deserve you.
> 
> EDIT: If you do decide you want to drop it b/c you don't like it or whatever, _please_ don't tell me. It's not necessary, and it puts me in a miserable mood and I really don't want to have to deal with that crap.


	5. All I Love Is Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got distracted

_Tap. Tap. Tap-tap._

The rhythmic sound of metal on metal pulls Soundwave up from recharge.

_Shhrrk._

The grayed frame still wrapped in his arms twitches, and Soundwave clutches it closer.

_Shhh, don’t wake up._

With a tearing sound, the body jerks away. Soundwave’s helm snaps up and the mechavian ripping wire loose from the corpse cocks its head and hops back.

Soundwave snarls static. It’s _his_ , his body, his friend.

The mechavian chirrs, turning its head to look at him with first one optic, then the other, and goes back to pulling at wires.

He swipes at it, only half his spark in the gesture. Corroded, acid-pitted thing, it looks no better than he does. He watches as it struggles with a tangle and reaches over to unknot it with his own spindly digits. The mechavian hops back, startled, wariness in its bright optics, and Soundwave tosses the scraps to the ground.

A clatter sounds at the end of the alley, and the mechavian lauches itself into the air, disappearing over the rooftops.

He glares at its absence and pulls the body closer, never minding the scratches its torn plating draws across his own frame.

“Hey now, what’s a looker like you doin’ in a place like this? You wanna earn some shanix maybe?”

What use are shanix when he has all he needs right here? A home. A family. A sense of belonging because he so very much belongs here, in the shadowed overhang of a building among the turborats and the spilt fluids.

A pede nudges him in the side and he ducks his helm against his friend’s cold chest. “Watcha got there, anyway? C’mon twenty shanix for a pretty thing like you. It’s burning a hole in my subspace.”

Twenty shanix. That could get him fuel. New, clean fuel.

And he’s done worse for less.

He tilts his helm up, looking at the mech sidelong.

“Interested, huh? C’mon, let’s get a look at ya.” A strong servo hauls him up by the arm, and he loses his grip on the body, letting it clatter to the ground in a broken pile. The mech makes a disgusted sound low in his throat. “Fraggin’ siphoners…”

The mech shoves him back down to the ground and his weight smothers Soundwave.

He shutters his optics. He can endure.

He can enjoy.

The mech is warm. The vents in his audial could be anyone’s. His intended’s, returned to forgive him everything. It doesn’t hurt at all.

_It doesn’t_.

With a deep shudder, the mech lifts off of him, fluid spattering Soundwave’s already dirty frame. The sound of pedesteps recedes.

His payment! Without it, he’ll starve, he’ll die –

_Would that be so bad?_

But he’s already reached the mech, digits grazing his shoulder to turn him around, and the mech pushes him away and he hits the wall, harder than he should have, it wasn’t a strong push, _he_ was the strong one, not this stranger, it’s _his_ shanix, he deserves it, he worked for it, he _needs_ it –

A fist to his gut doubles him over, and he’d retch if he had a mouth to retch with. Another blow fritzes his vision, making the ground before him judder with chromatic aberration. He curls his arms and legs up, makes himself small.

The mech will leave. The mech will leave. The mech will leave.

And suddenly the blows stop, the thud of heavy blows replaced by the screech of sharp cuts. He wants to look but his helm is heavy. Why would he move? It’s comfortable here.

Silence falls, broken only by the fading sound of running pedesteps.

The mechavian hops into view. Looks at him first with one optic, then the other. Chirrs.

Then black.

  



End file.
